Red Upon Red
by Milk and Glass
Summary: A crack!fic request. Addison/Owen. Addison comes to Seattle and starts a fiery romance with Owen Hunt.


"I don't know why you just can't listen to me."

His voice is low; angry. His hand is across his eyes, and he stands against the window so that you can't see him properly. He's outlined against the shade; red upon the red of the sunrise. But the worst thing is, he won't turn those icy, angry blue eyes to yours. You've disappointed him so roughly this time that he can't even look at you. And you, always confident, and always sure of yourself in a medical emergency, stay balled up under the covers where he found you, where you've been crying.

It amazes you that someone who's got so many issues himself; who's overcome the gunfire of Iraq and the shuddering panic attacks of post-traumatic stress syndrome; that's lost the love of his life and his family's respect – how can he be so strong under pressure? How can he know exactly what to do at the right time? And you – you've spent so many years honing your skills under the extreme pressure of Death in the room during a C-section that you thought you had it down. You realize, now, that you're nothing compared to this man who stands at the window and refuses to look you in the eye.

And the worst thing is, there's no answer for it. The amount of feeling in your heart for this man is more than you've ever felt for anyone, but you can't crack.

That's the first and foremost problem of your relationship. Red upon red just creates more fire.

But you wouldn't have it any other way.

//~//

Every day starts with the gym. It's the only way to wake up – the only way to reach that inner source of energy that lets you run yourself ragged all day and still have enough energy for drinks at the end of the day. Before, those drinks used to be sangria on a patio by the ocean; but since you've returned to Seattle, they've been a quick glass of wine at Joe's or even just a shot of vodka before bed in the apartment that you share with Callie.

Leaving L.A. – it's something you thought you'd never do. But after the fall out with Noah – after Morgan threatened to raise a malpractice suit against you after her baby was born with cerebral palsy and she almost died; after Noah begged you to stay while the memory of his wife's angry, teary, pale face floated just behind his shoulder – it was too much to stay. The lawsuit never came to fruition but enough is enough. The city isn't big enough to avoid a hit to your reputation and Morgan, though sweet, is not the type to shut up about potential adultery.

It wasn't just that, either. You lost yourself back there in the heat and sunshine. Sure, you needed the light to see who you really were, but yourself faded in the brightness and it's only the return to the rain that's made you really realize that L.A. was a mistake. You don't belong here in Seattle, either, but it's more comfortable. You're less noticed here in the greyness. And you find you don't mind that.

The treadmill waits every morning for you to burn your 850 calories before you head off to the hospital for another hectic day of obstetric emergencies and new babies yawning up at your smiling face. You've missed this – the surgeries; the mothers in need. Life was a lot slower in L.A. but you sometimes miss that, too. Part of your new contract states that you get to run an OB/GYN clinic and cut down on hours in surgery. Richard was so glad to have you back, he agreed without a hitch.

As you get up to speed on the treadmill, pushing yourself harder and harder, you idly look over to the door and catch sight of a tall man with a shock of red hair towelling himself off with a shirt and stretching his muscled arms and back. As you watch, your pace growing faster without you even knowing it, he picks up a weight and swings it effortlessly above his head. Gobsmacked, you trip over your loosened shoe lace and bang down, stomach first, on the treadmill, the wind knocked out of you.

Tears of pain and embarrassment immediately rush to your eyes, so you close them and hope against hope that this is just a dream and the pain in your stomach is just menstrual cramps. However, a voice, roughly bass, sounds above you.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"

It's professional, clipped. And since when did you become a "ma'am"? You'd like to think that your 40-year-old self can at least pass for 34 on good days!

You're not sure you can speak, so you open your streaming eyes and stare up at a roughly chiselled face, concerned blue eyes locking on yours, and a hand extended to you.

"Thanks," you mutter, rubbing your sore stomach and resisting the urge to pull up your shirt to check for a bruise.

"You okay?" His smile lights up the entire room and despite your pain, tears on your cheeks, and your untied shoelace flapping against the treadmill, which is still going, you smile back.

"No harm done. Just clumsy," you say, trying to laugh it off. He laughs with you for a moment and then sticks out a hand. It's rough, like he is, and you recognize the familiar feeling of the dry skin caused by surgical soap.

"Owen Hunt."

"Dr. Addison Montgomery," you can't help putting in, even though it doesn't matter that you're a nationally-renowned doctor when you've just smacked yourself off a treadmill.

He grins. "Nice to meet you, Addison."

"Likewise."

//~//

You learn from Callie that he's a retired army vet, come back to be Seattle Grace's new trauma surgeon, and you find yourself surprised that you didn't know that before. Now you remember where you've seen his face – you worked with him over a blue three-month-old just last week.

You also learn from Callie that he'd been dating Cristina Yang for about four months before you made your way to Seattle, and that he's still pretty broken up about her.

Despite yourself, you pout, shoving your hands into your white coat. "Damn."

Callie laughs. "You're interested in Owen Hunt?"

"Well, who wouldn't be? He's gorgeous!" You realize you've gone into the squealing mode you would use if you were still at Oceanside Wellness, and immediately shut up at Callie's raised eyebrows.

"I guess."

"Look, I know you're into girls now, but a little moral support . . .?"

"Yeah, he's not bad looking." Callie smiles. "I can't believe you're crushing on Owen Hunt."

You immediately jump on the defensive, crossing your arms. "Why?"

"I don't know . . . he doesn't really seem your type."

"I don't know how you'd know what my type was after almost six months of being away," you bitch, but then relent at Callie's continuously amused expression. "Okay, fine. Maybe he's not exactly the type of guy I'd go for."

"He is built, though. I can't argue with that."

"Can't argue with what?" Arizona comes up beside Callie and twines her arms around the dark-haired woman's shoulders, kissing her cheek.

You roll your eyes. "Okay, I'm out of here. See you later, Cal."

She just winks at you as you hurry down the hall – to smack straight into Owen Hunt.

You flush dark red. "Oh, Jesus. I'm so sorry."

He laughs, the sound coming from his chest, echoing from the corridor walls and startling some nurses. "It's okay. But for the sake of your health, Addison, you really should keep a better eye on what you're doing."

You scowl, not liking to be reminded of the gym incident. "Thanks for the tip."

"No problem." He stares down at you from his considerable height of about six foot four and smiles again. "Can I buy you a coffee?"

You are in the mood for caffeine, so you nod. "Sure."

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you," he begins, walking down the hallway at a pace almost too fast for your long legs to keep up with. "I've got a pregnant mother, just been in a bad car accident, and I'm afraid she's going to pop well before her time. Her baby has just cleared twenty-one weeks."

"Sure, I'll drop by after this and take a look at her. I'm sure that with careful bed rest and monitoring, we can stop her from delivering too early."

"No, that's fine, I have it under control. I just wondered if you had any other advice."

"Well, I'd need to examine her first." Your voice comes out slightly offended, and he looks a bit contrite. You're not sure, but you get the impression that he's used to simply giving orders and watching others jump to his bidding.

"Sure, come on down and examine her after our coffee."

He insists on paying, which you find charming, but just before he pulls out a chair for you at the nearest cafeteria table, your beeper goes off. It's your high-risk pregnancy – she's about to deliver. You reluctantly stand.

"I'm sorry. Can I take a rain check on the coffee?"

He smiles and you can't help smiling back – he's got a very infectious smile. "Sure."

"Page me when you're ready for me."

"Will do."

You walk out of the cafeteria, slightly disappointed, but you can't help but notice that his eyes never leave your retreating form, and despite yourself, you smile.

//~//

One day, after a gruelling C-section, you stumble towards an on-call room to sleep off the weariness before heading into another surgery at 3 pm. All you can think about is sleeping for a hard two hours – and you're not expecting anyone in the room when you finally stumble in, let alone what you see when you turn the knob.

He's clinging to the bed; sweat stands out on his forehead. He shakes so hard that the bunk bed is tapping against the wall, and the look in his blue eyes is wild, unlike the warmth and reassuring gaze that you've seen on other accounts.

Your first instinct is to leave. This is a private moment that you personally would want no one to see. But he's already seen you, and you suddenly feel like you can't just leave him this way, in the throes of a horrifying panic attack. Instead of leaving, you turn towards him; drop to your knees beside the bottom bunk, and grab his hand.

His hand is so big it envelopes yours almost totally. He squeezes so hard that you feel your bones crunching together and your hand go numb, but you don't let go, and you don't break his gaze.

After a moment, the shaking has slowed to a trembling, and you feel comfortable enough with him to sit beside him on the bed, letting your warmth meet his.

His arms twitch on the bed, and without thinking, you lay beside him on the narrow bed, his side just barely touching yours. Without thinking, he wraps you in his arms and his shaking slows down. He buries his face in your shoulder and it's not strange, though it should be. You barely know this man and you certainly aren't close enough to him for this. But you can't deny that it feels right.

Minutes pass. You think he's fallen asleep.

Then, "Thank you."

The incident is not mentioned by either of you again.

//~//

The next time you see him, he's fighting to save the life of the hurt pregnant mother with the 22-week old foetus. Without thinking, you swing into action, but you're focusing on the baby, and not the mother, and heartbreakingly, the child's life starts to ebb as the mother fights to stay alive.

"You need to take the baby out now, Addison," Owen barks from where he's struggling to perform CPR on this dying woman. "We can't save them both."

"We can if you just shut the hell up," you snap back, struggling to stabilize the woman enough to take her to the OR. He shakes his head irritably.

"Listen to me. We don't have time for the OR. You need to do something now."

"Do you expect me to perform a C-section in an area that's hardly sterile and covered in blood?"

"I expect you not to argue, and to follow my lead!" he booms, and chastened, yet still mind-numbingly angry, you silently begin to prep the woman for the section. But the time spent arguing has indeed taken its toll, and the woman's life comes to an end, her child's with it, there on the table.

Owen slams his hand down on the table. "Get out. Just get the hell out of here."

You draw yourself up, but realize that this is hardly the time or the place to argue with him. So, you "get the hell out" – straight to a private place where you can cry and kick yourself for not thinking clearly in an emergency.

When he comes in later, knowing where to find you, you're not in the mood for him.

"Go away, Owen."

"Addison. Look at me."

"No."

He laughs a little bitterly at your flat refusal and then gently turns your face towards his. "I asked you to look at me."

Your eyes flash at him. "And I said no."

"Too late."

Your face curves into a small smile at that, and he grins back before becoming serious. "I don't know why you can't just listen to me."

You sniffle, saying nothing, until his angry gaze fades into something more tender. "You're the most stubborn woman I know."

"So?"

"So, you need to learn to bend once in awhile."

"You need to learn to listen, as well."

He goes quiet and introspective for a moment, and you fade off into your own memories before you feel the bed depress beside you as he sits beside you.

"Okay. So, we both need to learn to listen."

"Yeah."

He leans over, his lips finding yours. They're soft, a surprise considering the rest of his body so far has been rough, and warm against yours. You melt into him, feeling his strong arms around your shoulders; your hands reach up to caress his cheek.

He smiles against your lips and murmurs, "Then I guess we'll have to try again."

Clashing red upon red – and you wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
